I’d been taking a keen interest in the weather report since Monday, and the huge rain cloud and low pressures lingering in the north Atlantic kept delaying their arrival with each new day’s report, until we were assured they would definitely arrive in time for the Polaris.
The drive up the M1 with Del & Caroline on Friday was slowed by high-sided lorries getting blown over, and my spirits sank every time the skies darkened and a rain storm blew across our path, but I now know these were just little tasters of what was to come.
Saturday: Two hours into the event and the wind was getting stronger. It had been windy from the start – we’d all had a good laugh while waiting at the start as someone chased his map across the field – but the west wind so far had only assisted me as I meandered towards the most north-easterly checkpoint on the map: CP1.
Before the event I had decided that my strategy for this Polaris was preservation, but only thought I meant preserving my strength because my Winter training had been so slack, until I emerged from the shelter of the trees 1km, or so, south of the checkpoint and the cross-winds hit me. The road now began to descend towards the checkpoint with interesting, potentially fast corners, but I had to ride it cautiously knowing that the faster I rode, the more it would hurt if the wind threw me to the ground. Checkpoint clipped; the easy bit was now over. The next 10km were going to be across the high, exposed ground of Hurst Moor & Marrick Moor, directly into the wind, and would serve as a good test of how well I could cope with the wind & rain, and therefore what I could hope to manage in the 7 hours.
Across Holgate pasture (sounds serene, doesn’t it?) the high-speed rain stung my face, but the tarmac road meant that I could balance against the gusts and catch & pass other riders.
Down & up a valley (a brief respite from the wind), and soon came the spur to CP#2. This headed west/north-west, slightly uphill for about 1km, over a moorland track. So it allowed for the full head-wind effect, with some side-wind thrown in. All this made for some very wobbly riding, with sudden gusts throwing riders off balance (and across the track), while riders coming the other way, at speed, risked colliding with them. All very dangerous.
The weather was now taking its toll. At the CP riders were sheltering behind stone wind-breaks having crisis meetings. I too was getting worried about how cold I was becoming and took a few minutes to review the map and decide whether my planned route was still feasible. I decided it was, if I could avoid injury.
A couple of kilometres further I reached the hamlet of Washfold which looked like the venue for a bad-weather cycling festival with bikes strewn everywhere, abandoned as their riders sought shelter in barns, behind walls and in the bus shelter! I rode up the tarmac incline to the west of the village, fighting the wind. Later, Del & Caroline would have to turn back here as the wind had strengthened and Del was physically unable to push his bike up the road!
As I pressed on towards CP#12, heading south-west, it was becoming difficult even to ride on the flat, smooth track, and it was often faster (and safer) to walk. But at least the effort required was keeping me warm, and it was raining a little less; happy times! The checkpoint couldn’t be far now, and up ahead were two marshals by a dry-stone wall gateway. I assumed they were manning the checkpoint, but they were there to warn riders of the funnelling effect of the wind through the gateway! I tried to push through once and was blown back. Head down, second time I was through!
Now riders were pushing their bikes downhill as the gales were too strong to even think about riding! Following a team down one section of track eroded into the hillside – walking the bikes – all three of us suddenly had to throw ourselves to the ground as a very strong gust blew in. I didn’t see it happen, but at that moment one of the team must have lost his map to the wind, coz he was suddenly running up the bank to retrieve something. His teammate could see the folly, and shouted “Reg, Nooo!!!!!”. “It’s just over here!” shouted Reg (as if it was going to stop before the next valley). Imploring him not to go, as if Reg was trying to single-handedly storm a machine gun nest… “Reg!!!! Noooooooo……!!!!!, the howl of the wind adding to the drama. But Reg was gone.
After I’d reached the checkpoint the wind had eased enough for me to ride the remaining 50 metres of rough track, before smoother tracks & roads would carry me to the valley floor; I was very cold, so keen to get there as quickly as possible. Alas, within moments of getting on the bike something pierced the sidewall of my tyre, so I now had to fix that, with shivering hands and chattering teeth, huddled behind a wall. The enjoyment was beginning to wear off!
A couple of hours later, after wasting time choosing the wrong bridleway and having to clamber across deep heather hillsides and 7′ dry-stone walls to get back on track, I was at a junction 3 kms north of the overnight camp. I had 1 hour remaining. Most people were taking the road directly to the camp, but there was an extra 40 points to be had with an 8 km loop to the south-east. Looking at the map, the hardest part looked likely to be the final westward push for camp, into the wind, but I could do that on adrenaline; I was exhausted, but 8 kph should be possible under most conditions, right?
As I began my climb up past a disused lead mine, my whole body was questioning the choice my head had made, and as the route rose to the moor and the full brunt of the gales, the track disappeared and was replaced by a ‘taped route’. On the map, the symbol for a taped route involved several parallel lines, giving the illusion that it was a substantial track, but the reality was a line of canes for 1 km, uphill, across open peat bogs and heather, oh and did I mention, it was very windy and I was very tired. As I pathetically pushed my bike, the front wheel being constantly stopped dead by the next thicket of heather, and having to regularly brace myself against another gust, I was feeling quite angry that anyone could include this on a map as any kind of path. But there was no-one to be angry at, so I just made some angry noises and then some whiney noises, then would laugh out loud at myself. All was drowned out by the wind.
Eventually the checkpoint came and the track improved. The final 3kms to the overnight camp didn’t disappoint: it was very, very hard. Some of it was ridable, some of it was walkable and there were blissful pauses in-between.
I arrived at the camp 16 minutes (22 points) late, so the final loop had earned me 18 points. So it was worth it. I looked around for Del & Caroline as they were going to save me a pitch, but I concluded they weren’t there. I found myself a lovely pitch beside a stream and a mixed team, and was soon warm, dry and feed. I laid in bed, recalling all the day’s adventures and wondering what tomorrow might bring. Eventually my toes stopped stinging and I fell asleep. I woke at 4:30 feeling cold. I’d had a solid 8½ hours sleep, so the only obstacle to starting today would be whether I could stop shivering when I put on my wet clothes. I dosed for a couple more hours.
Sunday:
After breakfast I noticed riders leaving before 8 o’clock, which was strange because the earliest start time was 8:00.
The event was being cancelled!
This seemed strange at the time because the weather had improved and everyone had had the chance of a night’s sleep, but it was the sensible thing to do. After packing up I time-trialed my way back to the event centre; there was no need – there was no clock – but I had 5 hours of energy to expend! Only one team that I passed rose to the bait and chased me back. Maybe they were amongst the few who, like me, got a good night’s sleep.
A couple of days later the results were out: 12th in category, 17th overall. Very mediocre I thought, but that’s missing the point; that spreadsheet says nothing of the adventure or the memories. Roll-on the next one.
John Hill-Venning
